In the boarders Far Chetwood, a marauding band of orcs had made camp and settled, posing a dire threat to the people of Bree. So bold they were that they roamed the lands openly, both day and night, preying on unwary travellers and farmlands dotted across the Bree-fields. They were merciless, cruel and ruthless. Rather than take prisoners, they sought to strike horror into the hearts of their enemies by mounting their heads on spikes. Action was required, although it may be too late. Nevertheless, Captain Nigel Holman led brave soldiers of the Watch north to counter this evil.
Little did they know what awaited them.
Durlston opened his eyes. He stood beside the camp which he knew all too well. The sight of it, the smell of charred flesh and wood smoke, the vile tongue of the orc polluting his ears. But how could this be? He was but an old man now, this event took place in his youth. Was it a dream? A vision? Was he going mad? Hidden within the bracken on the boarder of the forest, he saw the watchmen planning their attack. There was Nigel, his mentor and friend conversing with... himself? But this was his younger self, long before he was disgraced and exiled. Instinctively he moved forward, approaching the group completely unnoticed as if he were a ghost.
“No” said Nigel, his voice filled with frustration. “I will not sanction that. We are out numbed and out matched. We cannot hope to stand against the orcs in our present situation.”
Durlston, as in his younger self, pounded the ground with an armoured fist. “For goodness sake, Nigel! Look upon their battlements. Do you see those heads mounted on spikes? Do you see our brothers and sisters mutated and despoiled? That is the fate we inflict upon our people should we stand meekly by and do nothing!” The younger Durlston turned to the men crouched around them. “What are we if not cowards should we refuse to act? We have faced worse odds and survived; we will do so again!”
“You are drunk on victory, Durlston” said Nigel, “You are blinded by it. Does victory mean so much to you that you are willing to risk your men to slaughter?”
“This isn’t about me, Nigel. This is about-“
“I will never agree to this, it is suicide!” Nigel reached out to place a hand upon young Durlston’s shoulder. He batted it away and reached for his hammer.
“I am not a coward, Nigel.”
Older Durlston stood above the prone watchmen, forced to relive and endure the scene before him. It was torture to do so, a nightmare in the flesh. Enraged, he lifted his own hammer and swiped it at his younger apparition to no effect. His hammer merely glided through its body.
“No!” he cried, swiping laboured strokes at his former self. “No! Don’t!”
It was no use. His history remained unchanged. Younger Durlston ordered his men to rise and follow him into the encampment. “Men!” he shouted, “To arms!” The watchmen rose from their positions and drew their weapons. The orcs sounded an alarm as they charged the field. Nigel, reluctantly, following his protégé into battle. All the older Durlston could do was watch in horror until all fell into darkness. Although he could not see the battle, he could hear it. Smell it. The bloodcurdling cries of both men and orc, until all fell silent. As if in an instant, a fog rolled in and cleared the scene. As it evaporated, bodies lay strewn across the field, twisted and contorted and matted with blood. Durlston looked down at his fallen comrades and wept. Most of all when he turned his gaze down towards his feet, where a broken and lifeless body of Nigel lay.
“No!” the younger Durlston cried out. “No! Stand your ground! Stand and fight, we will win this day!” His younger self had been seized by two of his fellow watchmen, being dragged away from the battle. He was covered in blood and seething at the mouth. He was almost driven feral by the heat of bloodshed, refusing to surrender. Young fool he thought. Young, bloody fool.
The fog rolled in a second time, clearing everything as if it were a canvas. The real Durlston now stood within the headquarters of the Watch. He first noticed his younger self stood before a panel of superiors, all of whom stared at him with absolute distain.
“You’ve disgraced yourself and those who followed you, Peveril” said a portly man who sat at the centre of the panel of judges. “Because of your actions, many lives were lost. If only you heeded Holman’s council, none of this would have happened!”
“I did what I judged to be right” argued Durlston, armoured still with the blood of both man and orc upon him.
“You fool!” cried the lead judge, rising from his chair and slamming his palm upon the table before him. “Their blood is on your hands. Yours! Yours alone! There was no other option but to retreat, but you with your ego wouldn’t listen to reason, would you? Well, you will listen to these words and follow them to the letter!” The judge turned to his fellows who nodded each in turn. “Your rank has been stripped from you. You will no longer play a part within the Watch. You will be cast out, disgraced and dishonoured. All of Bree will know of your shame, I shall see to that personally!”
“You can’t mean it!” shouted Durlston. “After everything I have done for this-“
“It is done!” cried the judge. “You are lucky we do not execute you for this. Now, get you gone!”
The younger Durlston clenched his fists as if to continue to fight, but thought better of it. Instead, he was guided from the hall and out into the town. As he left, fellow members of the Watch muttered and glared, even spat at his feet. The real Durlston was grateful when the fog came to cleanse his surroundings, if only to escape the looks upon the faces of those he once knew. But he was not glad for long. As the fog cleared for the third and final time, he stood within a small townhouse on the boarders of the Bree-fields with a woman he had not seen in a very long time. This was Evelyn, the daughter of Nigel and his betrothed.
“They say it was you who killed my father” said Evelyn, facing the window and refusing to make eye contact with the younger Durlston. “They say he pleaded and begged you to reconsider. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“Evelyn, my love…”
“Don’t” she snapped. “Don’t call me that. Not now, not anymore. I want you to leave and never return.”
“Please, you must understand. We are at war, and in such times hard decisions must be made.”
“At what cost?” she replied, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “My father? Your men? All to satisfy your blood-lust? You’re no different from the orcs!”
“Please, if you would just…” he placed a hand upon her shoulder and she turned and slapped him hard across the face.
“Leave” she said, before turning away from him for the last time.
The word lingered in the air as the dream began to fade. Leave he did, and for many years. A life of exile and shame, time enough to reflect upon his error and loath himself more so than others. There is none alive who hated himself more, but what could he do to make amends? Durlston opened his eyes to a dark room, his rented chamber within the Thirst Boar. They say that dreams have a meaning, whether it be subconsciously or otherwise. It was not immediately clear to him what was to be gained from this, aside from torment. Whether this was a prelude to something greater, he was unsure. But all he could do was utter the words… “I’m so sorry” before drifting back into a now dreamless sleep.
